4 Times Cas Took Liberties and Dean Didn't Know
by ScottyFTW
Summary: ...and one time Dean totally knew. Dean/Castiel. Crackish.


_**4 Times Cas Took Liberties and Dean Didn't Know

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**_

…**and one time Dean totally knew.**

**Holy shit, guys, I'm in such a Supernatural mood. Particularly a Dean/Cas mood. Seriously.**

**Anyway. Cutesy shit ahead. I don't know what it is about Castiel that makes me incapable of writing anything more than chaste kissing with him. Sure, I can **_**read**_** smut and lemons easy (I'm a dude, I like porn, it's inescapable) with the guy in it, but write it? No. I dunno. It's probably the whole "innocent little angel thing." I can't bring myself to write anything dirty.**

**(I disclaim all rights to Supernatural.)

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_**i.**_

He's got his salt and his holy water and his Latin and his brother, so even though they're hopelessly outnumbered, Dean feels _good._ He stares up at the darkened house before them, its halls swarming with demons, and he's confident. Dean has to be confident if he wants to survive more than three seconds. _We're gonna win_, he thinks boldly. They've gotten out of worse situations before, after all.

Sam's got that tense, serious look on his face, and Dean disapproves, 'cause _we're gonna win._ What's Sammy so worried about?

Castiel's expression is the same as always, all solemn and grave and stern, so Dean has no hope of guessing by that if he's scared or not. Dean supposes he might be, since this'll be the first time he's had to really fight like a human. He can't kill demons with an easy palm to the forehead anymore, like a _Coulda Had a V-8 of __**DEATH!!!**_ He's new to this. But then again, Cas is a soldier, and he can hold his own in a fight, Dean's pretty sure. Still, if Cas _is_ scared, he shouldn't be—_we're gonna win._

"You nervous, Cas?" Dean decides to ask with a cocky little grin, and Castiel doesn't spare him a single glance.

"No."

Dean looks back at the house with a nod, 'cause that's what he likes to hear. No reason to be scared at all.

But a warm hand closes around Dean's, and he doesn't have to look to know that it's Cas—partly because Sammy hadn't held his hand since he was eleven, but mostly because there was something sorta _holy_ about the warmth that jolted up Dean's arm and through his body, like if Castiel's hand was just half a degree warmer it would scorch Dean's skin, but somehow it wouldn't hurt at all.

But that's a stupid thing to observe, Dean thinks, something weird and poetic in a girly way, something Sam would think. So he shoots Cas a weird look that says _dude, __**gay**_ but his protests die in his throat. 'Cause Castiel _is_ new to hunting like a human, and he's new to emotions—he's probably scared. Dean remembers how Sam's hand had always instinctively gone for his, back when they were kids, when Sammy got scared on a hunt.

Cas's face betrays no fear, and if Dean didn't know any better, he'd think that Castiel had just thought that right then, holding Dean's hand seemed like a pretty swell idea.

_He's new, kinda like a kid_, Dean decides, _kinda like Sammy._ So instead of yanking his hand away, he rolls his eyes and says, "You're not nervous, huh?"

Castiel's eyes slide over to him, not a flicker of fear anywhere in them (_wow, he's good at hiding it,_ Dean thinks) and he squeezes Dean's hand tightly as he says seriously, "Of course I'm not."

And Dean shakes his head with an amused smile, muttering, "Angels," and staring back up at the house.

They win that night. Dean _told_ Cas it was gonna be fine.

_**ii.**_

"Dammit, Cas, for an all-knowing angel of the Lord, you really are a dumbass," Dean snaps when he sees the large, blistering burn on Castiel's back.

"I am not all-knowing," Cas corrects in that annoying _"read the Bible, get your facts straight"_ voice he always used whenever Dean did or said something that reminded him that he was _not_ a religious person. "And while my injury is due to poor judgment on my part, I don't think it's necessary for you to infer that I am in any way mentally deficient."

"Oh, shut up, would you?" Dean says irritably. "For Chrissakes, Cas, this looks terrible! Who the hell stops a burning piece of timber _with their back?_ You can't heal yourself anymore, you idiot!"

"If I hadn't done it, it would have fallen on you," Cas says defensively—though Dean knew Cas would always deny ever sounding defensive.

"God, looking at it makes my skin crawl," Dean shudders, the shiny, damaged red skin of Cas's back just screaming out at him _look at me, I'm gross!_ Cas is perched on the foot of the bed, his injury facing Dean; Dean had ordered Cas to show him his back, and is now half-wishing Cas had refused to take off his shirt.

"You're the one who demanded to see it," Castiel says. "If it bothers you, stop looking at it."

"It's hard to look away!" Dean can deal with cuts and gunshots and other such injuries that draw blood, but burns have never really been his forte. Which is kinda funny, Dean considers, seeing as he's been to Hell and all.

"I can't treat it properly myself," Cas says simply, peeking over his shoulder at Dean. "I have stopped the burning with cold water already. The wisest course of action—excluding going to the hospital—would be for you to apply topical ointment to my injury."

"Right," Dean grumbles, taking the ointment Castiel holds out to him expectantly, "run around burning yourself and then demand that I rub my hands all over your body." Cas doesn't bother dignifying that with a response, in a very literal _holier-than-thou_ way.

Dean has long since lost count of the times he has had to touch Cas in excess, and vice versa. Not that it's a bother, of course—_Good God, that sounded gay,_ Dean notices with mild alarm. But Dean always finds himself holding the guy's hand still when the three of them are on a case together, or hauling him bodily out of the way of danger 'cause the idiot hasn't gotten used to being destructible, and he's even been locked in tiny little spaces like closets and cupboards with him (_Tricksters,_ he'd hear Castiel mutter against his neck whenever that happened, all squished close to him like a sardine, and then they'd do a lot of awkward shuffling, as Dean tried to make enough room so he could kick the door off its hinges, and when they managed to get out Dean was always the only one looking flustered). Apart from the necessary/accidental contact like that, Cas himself is all touchy-feely, but Dean isn't as bothered by it when it's Cas, because…you know angels. He and Dean argue sometimes, and sometimes it gets a little bad, but when they make up, Cas always wants to do that formal handshake thing—_like civilized people, Dean,_ he'd say sternly—and then he squeezes Dean's hand affectionately between both of his, like a priest or something. And then he gets all annoyingly concerned when Dean gets hurt, and he insists on touching his face and tilting it this way and that, and when Dean quips at him with something like "I know I'm damn touchable, Cas, but jeez, a little subtlety please?" he'll just glare.

Nah, touching Cas isn't _unpleasant_, but damn does it happen a lot.

So Dean grudgingly pops the lid off the ointment and gruffly asks, "Does it hurt?" He knows it doesn't, since the pain in vessel Jimmy doesn't reach angel Castiel, but he'd rather talk as he treats the burn instead of rubbing Cas's back in silence—that'd be weird.

"No," Cas answers predictably as he leans forward to put his elbows on his knees so as to offer the whole of his back to Dean, sending an expectant look over his shoulder that says, _Well?_

Jesus, how many chicks had Dean nailed after getting a look like that? There was something severely…disturbing? strange? surreal?...about Cas having that look on his face. An angel!

But that's stupid, of course, because Castiel couldn't give anyone a seductive look if God himself told him to. Dean internally chuckles to himself—only he would associate any kind of expectant expression as something sexual. Then he stops chuckling, because he realizes that his mind went to sex when _Castiel_ adorned that look.

Dean is grouchy again when he gets to applying the ointment, and gets even grouchier when he sees that Cas's eyes are closed and the corners of his lips are barely turned up. "What're _you_ smiling about?"

"My burn is feeling better," Castiel explains patiently, which makes no sense to Dean because it shouldn't feel _better_ if it didn't feel _bad_ in the first place. So he gives Cas a funny look as his fingers glide over the blisters, covering them in topical ointment, and Castiel blinks innocently at him, so Dean decides he's too tired for Cas's crap today and lets it drop.

_**iii.**_

Somewhere behind the shame and agony and self-loathing, Dean feels annoyance as he wrenches upright in bed, screaming like he's being burned at the stake.

Nightmares of Hell. He still had them, of course, but Dean had thought the waking-up-screaming part was gone. Apparently not.

His nightmares are stark and vivid, not a single detail letting itself be distorted or left out; Dean doesn't get to leave Hell behind so easily. His nightmares are as terrible as if he's actually there. He dreams only of the ten years he spent torturing. Not once has Dean dreamt of his own pain, and he'd do anything to relive his own instead of seeing himself torture others over and over and over…

One thought goes through his head—_good thing Sammy's not here_—as Dean staggers to the bathroom to vomit. He kneels over the toilet and figures he can cry for a bit since his brother won't be lurking outside the door, _caring_.

A few minutes later, Dean wipes his eyes and brushes his teeth—his mouth tastes like _ass_ now, holy crap—and opens the bathroom door to come face-to-face with Castiel.

Dean jumps, startled, and then remembers that his face makes it obvious that he had been crying, so he steps back and slams the bathroom door shut.

Castiel's voice comes from behind him, "Dean."

Dean closes his eyes, thinking _why me?_ He opens the door again and walks out, Cas following. "Go away."

"You shouldn't be having those nightmares," Cas says solemnly, and Dean turns to shoot him a nasty look.

"Right, I'll just have a little chat with 'em and tell 'em to knock it off," he snaps.

"I meant you shouldn't dwell on the things you did during your stay in Hell," Castiel elaborates, and Dean laughs coldly, because what the hell does _Cas_ know?

"I think the least I can do is dwell," Dean says with a bleak, humorless smile as he falls back onto the bed. "I hope the nightmares stay forever."

There's a brief pause, then Cas asks, "Why?" and Dean sits up to give him an incredulous look. That Castiel…always clueless.

"Why do you _think?_" Dean demands. "You think I deserve to just forget what I did? I'm _never_ gonna forgive myself, and there's no way I possibly _could_, anyway. Nightmares—they remind me why I don't get the luxury of forgiveness."

_Hey, that was a good speech, I didn't even rehearse!_ Dean thinks erratically, distracted, and he doesn't even notice Castiel is moving until he's beside him on the bed. Dean leans back a little.

"There is nothing to forgive," Cas says somberly, and Dean stares at him in disbelief.

"Dude, you yanked me outta Hell," he says. "You saw what I'd been doing."

"You were pure. You went to Hell. Hell broke you," Cas says slowly, staring straight into Dean's eyes in that unnerving way where he doesn't blink nearly often enough to make Dean comfortable. "That is all Hell does. It breaks. You, Dean…Hell snapped you right in half."

Dean swallows hard, his throat feeling like sandpaper. "Gee, thanks, Cas."

"The fact that it was such a clean break says so much about you, Dean," Castiel presses, all intense and kind of intimidating, and Dean would lean back further but something won't let him. "You weren't a frayed or tattered soul when you died. Hell didn't have to pick at you for three decades until you shattered—you held strong and then you snapped."

"You're telling me stuff I already freakin' knew," Dean tries to snarl but it comes out hoarse and disappointing.

"You broke cleanly and you will heal quickly, smoothly," Cas says. "You were pure then and you are pure now."

Dean feels weird having Castiel say these things about him like he knows Dean better than Dean knows himself, but he can't protest because Cas does know. He might not totally _get_ Dean, but Cas knows Dean's soul like the back of his hand.

But Dean doubts. "Dean Winchester, pure. That's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

"Look at things you do, Dean," Castiel insists. "Every day, you kill demons and search for ways to destroy Lucifer. You help people, you love your brother. You save lives for the sake of saving lives."

"Your point?"

"You did that before you went to Hell, and after your experiences there, you still do it."

Dean is silent, and he wants to look away but Cas's gaze won't let him.

"The only reason you went to Hell at all was because you asked to," Castiel says severely, "and the only reason you got out was because you didn't belong there."

Dean knows Cas has a point, but Dean is Dean and self-worth—or lack thereof—is part of who he is. So he finally manages to wrench his eyes away from Cas and settle back into the pillows, rolling over so he wasn't facing him. When Castiel's weight doesn't leave the bed, he rolls over again.

"You gonna leave?" he demands irately.

"It was my intention to remain here," Cas says in a voice like _well, yeah, duh_ that surprises Dean, "so you would not have to be alone after your nightmare."

"…Oh," Dean says blankly, because he was about to say "that's weird, go somewhere else" but something very un-Deanlike stopped him with _that's actually kinda nice, don't be rude after that_.

"However," Castiel continues, "since I know you're going to ignore everything I have told you, if you would prefer it that I leave…" He makes to get off the bed, and Dean is suddenly rushing to assure him.

"No, it's just…that's…fine?" He feels like he's taking a test in his own brain that he doesn't study for, with option _A _for kick Cas out of his room, _B_ for let him stay, and _C _for none of the above.

Cas lowers himself back onto the bed, lying down beside Dean and fixing him with another one of those intense gazes that always seem to make Dean feel like he shouldn't be allowed to return them. Damn angels.

"So does this mean you're sleeping with me?" Dean finally asks, going with sarcasm because sarcasm always saves the day.

Castiel disregards his comment and suddenly lifts an arm, reaching over for Dean's face, and before Dean can protest he's pressing his warm fingers to Dean's cheek and saying, "No matter what you personally think, I know you do not deserve nightmares. Carry on, wayward son."

And suddenly, not if his own accord, Dean's spiraling down into unconsciousness that holds promises of no nightmares, but before he slips away he manages to smile and say, "Hey, you quoted Kansas, Cas." And he can't be too sure, but Castiel may have smiled back and closed his own very blue eyes, cupping Dean's cheek the remainder of the night. And Dean is at a loss as to why Cas isn't poofing away right now, why he seems to be burying his face comfortably into Dean's pillow and curling up close to Dean's side like he's always belonged there, but Dean is half-asleep so who knows if that's really happening…

Dean wakes up alone the next morning, but that familiar holy warmth is still searing across his face.

**_iv._**

Castiel's hand curls around Dean's arm, pulling him to a stop. "Did you hear that?"

Dean shakes his head and strains his ears, trying to hear what Cas's sensitive ears are picking up. Dean hears nothing, but Cas does, and he tugs his arm.

"Someone is here. Come on," he says gravely, but Dean pulls his gun and resists Cas's tugging.

"Dude, we _are_ looking for someone," he reminds him impatiently, wagging his gun in Cas's face. It's loaded with rock salt. "Get your head in the game."

"It's a person, not a ghost," Cas says. "We are not authorized to be here. We should stay out of sight." Dean rolls his eyes, because that is _so_ Castiel, to be concerned about ethics and getting in trouble, while not actually being _worried._ But Dean has never given a rat's ass about getting caught in places he shouldn't be, and neither has Sammy, which makes it easier for Dean to work with him, but he and Sammy split up outside. Sammy is searching for the remains to salt and burn out on the grounds surrounding the factory, and Dean is searching inside with Cas glued to his side.

"It's probably Sam," Dean says, lowering his gun a little, but Cas pulls his jacket sleeve again.

"It is unlikely that Sam has discovered Winston's remains already," he hypothesizes, practically dragging Dean down the hallway, "and even if he has, he would have called your cell phone rather than come all this way to retrieve us, as we are on the fourth floor."

Dean sees that Cas is leading them to a door at the end of the hall, labeled **JANITOR'S CLOSET** and Dean groans, because thanks to Cas he's developed a small case of claustrophobia. He digs his heels into the floor, trying to stop Cas.

"Well, whoever it is, we can take 'em," Dean protests. "We've got guns and muscle."

"I would much prefer to avoid a physical confrontation," Cas says sternly as they reach the closet, and Dean finds himself pulled in and enveloped in darkness. He stumbles and knocks his shin sharply against a bucket, which clatters noisily, and sends a broom toppling over somewhere with a loud clacking sound.

"Dean, the point of hiding is to _not_ be located," Cas whispers, which Dean knows is Castiel-speak for _Dammit, Dean, be quiet! _Normally Dean would have _totally_ chewed him out for being a smartass with him, but since they're trying to hide he knows he should be quiet. Also, he's a bit distracted as he tries to find a way to stand without having the _entire damn length of his body_ smashed against Cas. The closet is unbelievably cramped; Dean can feel Castiel's heartbeat pounding against his own chest, and he thinks _calm down, Cas, if somebody _is_ here, they're not gonna look in a closet on the fourth floor_ because Cas's pulse is thrumming fast and uneven for some reason. Dean gives up on trying to push away from him for now, because he doesn't want to draw attention to their hiding spot until they know for sure nothing out there is a threat to their case.

Several tense moments later, he hears Sam's voice call from the opposite end of the hallway outside, "Dean? Cas?"

Dean sags from his tight, motionless stance and groans loudly, "Dammit, Cas! I told you it was Sam!"

"My apologies," Castiel sighs. "I was erring on the side of caution."

"Erring on the side of _paranoia_," Dean mutters, and he reaches back, groping for the doorknob. His fingers close around the cool metal and he twists, but the knob catches on a lock and does not open. Brow furrowing, Dean twists again, but the door stays shut, firmly locking them in.

Locked in a closet with Castiel. _Again._

"Why are we not exiting?" Cas asks innocently, which naturally pisses Dean off.

"'Cause we're locked in, stupid!" Dean barks at him. "_Hey, Sammy! In here!_"

Sammy's voice is confused. "…Dean?"

"In the janitor's closet! It's locked!" Dean bellows, and he stiffens slightly when Cas lets out a little sigh against his cheek. Half of Dean wants to snap at him and demand to know what _he's_ sighing for since _he's_ the one who locked them in here in the first place, and the other half of Dean wants to know why he's suddenly so freakin' aware of Cas's close proximity.

"Get us outta here, Sammy," Dean orders, a bit louder than strictly necessary, but yelling seems like a good way to drown out the thunder ringing in his head as his heart pounds a lot faster in his ears all of a sudden.

Sam's voice sounds amused, like he's trying his damnedest not to bust out laughing as he says from the other side of the door, "…Dean? Cas?"

"Just open the friggin' door!"

Sam figures that moment is a great time to say _to hell with sympathy_ and laughs uproariously. "You two are stuck in there? Seriously?"

"_Dammit, Sam! Just let us out!_" Dean roars, frantic to escape. This isn't an unfamiliar situation; Cas is like a magnet for getting locked in places with Dean, it's so weird. Sometimes Dean feels bad for the guy, 'cause he knows that Cas knows about Dean's personal space thing, and sometimes Cas forgets but Dean knows he tries.

"Dean, there's no need for you to shout," Cas says calmly, and Dean gnashes his teeth agitatedly because from his position, he can feel Castiel's chest vibrate with the rumble of his voice, and his cheek is brushing against Dean's, scruff scraping gently against skin, his breath all hot in his ear.

Dean knows he's gotta get the hell outta this closet before his libido forgets he's straight. And the fact that Dean has just allowed himself to vaguely consider banging a dude just freaks him out more.

"Sam!"

"This is too great," Sam is howling from the hallway, and Dean can just see him rolling on the floor clutching his stomach mirthfully. "Lemme guess, Cas pulled you in there?"

"I didn't know we'd be trapped," Castiel explains. "This is an unfortunate pattern Dean and I have fallen into."

"Damn straight!" Dean cries, and Sam dissolves into peals of laughter again. "Hell, Cas, I think you set us up for this crap when you get bored!"

"The fact that you've concocted a theory for accidents like this is very telling, Dean," Cas says dryly, and Dean is praying to God for an escape as Cas continues, "I don't think your brother will be letting us out anytime soon."

"What a dick. Come on," Dean grunts, "I'm gonna break us out. We gotta turn around."

There's lots of shuffling and stumbling in the darkness, loud clatters and thumps as they knock cleaning supplies over and collide with the confining walls that force them so closely together. Eventually, Castiel's back is to the door.

"There is an obstacle here," Cas points out. Dean blinks blindly in the dark, clueless.

"No, I moved the bucket."

"I was referring to myself."

"Oh."

"You know it would save a lot of time and effort if you simply allowed me to teleport with you—" Cas tries to say reasonably, but Dean refuses vehemently. Being zapped somewhere by an angel is the worst way to travel—next to flying in an airplane.

"No, no, I got this, okay? I _got_ this," Dean insists, and he can hear Cas's unspoken but heavily skeptical _Go ahead and do it, then, tough guy_, and Dean will! Swallowing hugely and viciously beating down his hyperawareness of Cas, he says gruffly, "C'mere, you gotta get closer…"

"We're already quite close…" Castiel points out, but Dean doesn't snipe at him because it wasn't a protest and he can feel him trying to press himself even closer into Dean's chest. Dean's hand press into the small of Cas's back, earning him an odd, "Ah…Dean…?" but Dean doesn't an _angel_ thinking he's got questionable intentions right then, and anyway, he's just trying to navigate Cas into a position that gives Dean's right leg enough room to kick out. Castiel's arms wind unexpectedly around Dean's torso, and Dean is about to shriek in terror at his own perpetually guttered mind and scream _back, temptress! _but then he remembers, oh wait, he was about to tell Cas to do something with his arms anyway, 'cause they were getting in the way and wrapping them around Dean was probably the easiest way to do that.

The other pantries they've been trapped in were never this small or demanded all this _gayness_ for them to get out. Cas really did know how to pick 'em.

Dean pins Cas tightly against him so the jerking of his kicks won't jostle him so badly. Dean's leg flies out in the blackness to collide jarringly with the door. The door doesn't go flying—it never does on the first try—but the jolt does cause Cas's face to collide with Dean's neck and he's pretty sure he felt a pair of wet lips there and the fact that Dean's first thought is _wow, they're soft_ is horrendously disturbing to him.

He kicks another time, and another, and that's when Cas realizes that he's going to split his lip if his face keeps colliding with Dean so sharply, so he figures that's a perfectly good reason to bury his face in Dean's neck and _GODDAMN ANGELS ARE TOO DAMN NAÏVE _and finally the door smashes off its hinges.

The moonlight that pours into the hallway peeks in the closet, and Cas exhales hugely into Dean's throat—probably in relief, Dean guesses, if Cas is a fraction as jumpy as he is feeling now—which succeeds in making goose bumps erupt violently across him. The next thing Dean knows, Castiel is exiting the closet with more dignity than Dean can ever hope to possess.

Dean punches Sam in the ribs, hard, and demands, "D'you find the damn bones?"

"Found 'em, salted 'em, burned 'em," Sam wheezes, still grinning, and Dean wants to rip him a new one.

"Why didn't you call, dude!?" he asks furiously. "The whole reason Cas dragged me in there was 'cause he heard you!"

"Couldn't get a signal anywhere."

Dean sends a glare in Cas's direction, but Cas regards him naively and says, "I have admitted to and apologized for my mistake, Dean; there's no reason for you to be upset. We were not in there for very long."

Dean fidgets, upset despite Castiel's words, and compulsively straightens his jacket. He coughs boisterously and shoves his hands into his pockets and starts off down the hallway. "Whatever. I need a beer."

**_And then there was that time…_**

When Dean finally wises up to Castiel's behavior, there is no physical contact between them.

Cas is examining something curiously on the driver's side door of the Impala while Dean leans against the hood, nursing a beer with Sam. Dean glances at Cas frequently, wondering just what the hell is fascinating the guy so damn much. When a little dent forms between Cas's eyebrows, his lips pressing into a firm line of displeasure, Dean rolls his eyes.

"Alright, Cas, I'll bite," he sighs. "_What_ are you lookin' at?"

The faintly frustrated expression clears from Castiel's face as he raises his eyes to Dean and straightens up. His tone is very matter-of-fact as he tells Dean, "There is a dent in the Impala."

First, Dean feels mild concern for his baby and he peers around at the door, where a small little dent and scuff decorate the dusty side of his car. Dean is relieved, 'cause his car has suffered much worse damage than _that._

"Ah, she can handle little dings like that, easy," Dean shrugs, leaning back against the hood and touching his beer to Sam's in a toast to his badass car. The Impala's got tons of little dents scattered on her, but she's still beautiful. Always beautiful. Her scuffs and scrapes are like battle scars, letting everyone know how tough she is, how she's Daddy's little trooper. Dean is so proud of her.

Then, Dean is confused. Castiel has never shown any interest in the Impala, and he's certainly never been concerned about the car getting damaged. Dean says as much to Cas, who comes around to the front of the car to stand beside him. Sammy gets that weird little grin that always pops up whenever Cas comes within three feet of Dean, and only God knows what's so funny to that kid, and Sammy says he's gotta take a leak and leaves them.

"Your...fondness for the Impala is…" Cas seems to be searching for the right words, glancing from side to side as if he hopes to find the words he's looking for floating in the air. "…slightly contagious."

Dean raises his eyebrows, a pleased smirk tugging at his lips. "That right?"

"It's hardly anything compared to your affection, which goes without saying," Cas says blandly, leaning against the hood in an unconsciously human manner Dean can't help but assume he picked up from himself. "But I've found that I don't like seeing her damaged." He sends Dean one of those sideways glances that he probably doesn't even know seem to _smolder_, it's just that he's slightly shorter than Dean and he never seems to see anything wrong with peering up at him through his eyelashes like a damn _girl_.

A bunch of discombobulating sensations attack Dean's being at once, and he can't for the life of him tell what happens first but he knows that his heart does a freaky little back-flip and then swells enormously inside his chest and his brain is distractedly thinking _well that can't be good for your cardiovascular system_ and his face is having a bizarre epileptic fit—oh no, wait, he _smiling_ and he can't remember telling his face muscles to do that and his mouth is saying, "_Her?_" and he's got this weird feeling in his stomach kinda like _happiness_ but does normal happiness come with the feeling that butterflies are blowing bubbles merrily in your tummy? And Dean is so busy getting lost inside his own head that he very nearly misses the tiny little light that flares up behind Castiel's eyes when the happy chaos shows itself on Dean's expression.

And then one huge realization comes crashing down on the cacophony inside of him, like a fat dude sitting on an overflowing suitcase to finally seal it shut, and the smile slips away as his eyes widen but he's not unhappy, he's shocked. _Cas does it on purpose._

"Dude," he manages, and Cas's face is innocently curious—but Dean has seen that innocent look plenty of times, and only now does he know that this angel is damn _devious._ The Tricksters locking them in closets and the occasional time it's just Castiel—Cas doesn't _err on the side of caution_ like that, and there damn sure ain't _that_ many Tricksters in the world; he presses in tight to Dean because he _wants_ to. The hand-holding—Cas doesn't smoothly lie that he's not scared on missions, he doesn't hold Dean's hand in their private little way that Dean was sure had been childlike instinct Cas didn't yet know how to reign in; he really _isn't_ scared, but letting Dean assume he's lying is a great way to gain permission to hold his hand. The injuries—Cas doesn't just _happen_ to let Dean know about the injuries he can't treat himself the _second_ Sam's not around to help instead of Dean; he wants _Dean_ to touch him, fix him, and _only_ Dean.

Castiel doesn't just _happen_ to like the Impala—he likes Dean, and Dean likes the Impala, and liking the Impala is a sure-fire way to really get on Dean's good side.

Cas has been taking liberties. Cas has been bullshitting his way into Dean's heart in a truly magnificent, sneaky, angelic way.

Dean can't seem to say anything else, so he just says again, "_Dude._"

Cas tilts his head. "You seem to have had an epiphany, Dean." He's still leaning back against the Impala, his fingers splayed against the black hood, and Dean swallows hugely because he's seen porn start off with girls leaning like that, but Cas is a guy and Cas is an angel and Cas is fully clothed but _damn_ if it isn't way hotter.

Dean nods quickly, jerkily, and rasps out, "Yeah, uh, kinda."

Cas waits, eyes big and blue and inquisitive, and he can see that Dean is a little too busy drowning in them so he prompts, "What was it?" and it sounds like he honestly doesn't know what's going through Dean's head, but hell, Dean can't tell if Cas is still playing innocent or not.

Either way, Dean clears his throat and says, "Uh, well…" And he turns, drawing himself up taller and reminding himself that there _is_ a middle ground between straight and gay, and now that he thinks about it, bisexuality sounds like a lot of fun, so his voice is stronger when he says, "I figured out that you've been waiting impatiently for _this._"

And he tilts Castiel's chin up gently, because he's pretty sure he could never be rough with this particular partner, and he kisses him. It's brief and it's the most chaste kiss Dean has ever shared with _anyone_ but he really likes the way that special angel warmth feels against his lips so he's far from complaining.

And Cas has the nerve to blink in naive surprise when Dean pulls away, and he says, "Interesting. I can't imagine what I've done to make you think that." And Dean glares and Cas smiles that little half smile of his because Castiel never fully grins, and he tilts his face up to Dean's again.

Angels are sneaky little bastards.

* * *

**Schmoop alert, holy shit.**

**Four things: 1. I pulled that "Castiel doesn't feel pain in his vessel" crap right out of my ass. I don't know if he can feel pain or not, but for the sake of that segment, he can't, okay?**

**2. I thought "Cas" was a cute nickname for Castiel at the beginning of this story, but now that I'm done, I HATE IT. But I had to keep using it because it's Dean's POV, so yeah.**

**3. Do you know how hard it was to refrain from having Dean's thoughts be full of profanity? How "bullshitting" was the worst thing in there? Do you even know? I just had this compulsive need to keep the profanity at the actual in-universe limit, not for any particular reason…I just had to. I regret it. I myself curse like a sailor, even in my thoughts. It was hard.**

**4. Dean's not homophobic here; he's just very used to being content with his busty Asian beauties and then WOAH I WANNA BANG A DUDE (I figure since that's what I was like when I first liked another guy, why not?)**

**But other than that, this was so much fucking fun to write. I love writing as Dean. I made the style kind of choppy and with lots of nonsensical run-on sentences because I think that's how Dean's voice sounds in his head.**

**I need to write moar Supernatural shit. I can see why fangirls go nuts over this show.**


End file.
